


On Mending A Broken House With A Needle and Thread

by Charolastra



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Child Death, Divorced Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, F/M, Hurt Alexander Hamilton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 11:44:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20581961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charolastra/pseuds/Charolastra
Summary: Wordlessly, Alexander shuffled up beside her. His blues followed hers down to the dull flowers nearly doubling over with the freeze. Annual flowers. Philip planted them with Eliza when he was 7.





	On Mending A Broken House With A Needle and Thread

Alexander's mind computed the world in a way that the intellectually skilled tend to: differently. Noise, excitement almost made the world around him shake and hum with power, desire, and _color_. So much color.

He looked up at the door of the bank and today it was gray on gray on gray on gray on gray. The wavelength was weak, with a heartbeat as slow and unworldly as the trees.

Angelica asked him, to the side, if he wanted an apple with his lunch, and did he feel all right today, because he looked a little under the weather? Her father nodded once, sufficient for Angelica, and he had already made it inside when she innocently asked, "When will Philip be home?"

Alexander inhaled the smell of the bank and exhaled it. Inhaled, then exhaled. On his walk to the main office he found that the last reserves of his frustration were already emptied, and for the first time since then, he had no passionate reaction. He returned only with handfuls of resignation; exhaustion. After all, it was not the bank's fault that, no matter what he did, no matter how long he spent in the garden breathing in the citrus flower smells, the scent of freshly-turned dirt stung his nose every day. It was almost sweet, as fragrant fresh earth laced with dew. Still it hurt, and it had no clear origin. Nothing would drive it away.

Eliza stayed home, minding the quieted children with the exuberance only an experienced sufferer could affect. She washed their clothes, played marbles with them on the living room floor, hoisted them to the Windows with young Angelica to see wind rattle the bare boughs of oak trees outside. She would not notice the pleading gazes her children affixed on her at times; She would not know the children noticed that her smiles, while warm as usual, were simultaneously empty. Like leftovers of the fresh ones, which had stolen away to a place that couldn't be rediscovered and would probably curl itself into a ball and cease to exist, some day. And they knew with perhaps the most certainty that she never talked, ever, about old Philip.

Little John and Alexander and Elizabeth also pretended, with great success, not to notice their mother's black gown tail flitting with the wind as she snuck outside. Back into early January wind, peppered snow, and chill. Abandoning their warm dinner she had only just finished preparing.

For a long while she stood in front of the wilting orange and yellow flowers in the very back of her garden. She shielded the plants from the wind at the expense of her few shivers and chatters, though she was unperturbed in every other way.

And like he had so many nights before, Alexander came home, greeted his children, enjoyed the still-steaming dinner and aided them in clean-up, and went outside, too. He followed the imprints of his wife's shoes to the farthest green in their little field.

"Good evening," he said, and stopped walking when he was a few feet behind her.

"Good evening," she answered, but the tone was contradictory.

Minutes of silence lazed by. Wordlessly, Alexander shuffled up beside her. His blues followed hers down to the dull flowers nearly doubling over with the freeze. Annual flowers. Philip planted them with Eliza when he was 7.

When he looked back, her expression was only unreadable. As though they would die if she looked away, she stayed fixed on the flowers.

Alexander wished that the fallen pine needles would take the tentative grass blades from beneath them and sew the two together, arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder, soul to soul, so they could stay together for years and years, and maybe one day it would hurt less to stand in the garden they planted and accept that the season for flowers was over.

As the flowers left the smells did. He breathed in crisp air evenly. Faintly he was aware the Eliza was inhaling, too, at the same pace. Their breath synced.

Ten minutes marched by this time, each minute bringing them just a shuffle or two closer to each other until their shoulders almost touched. Alexander viewed his wife like a fragile doll; With utmost reverence, he usually gave her a wide berth and personal circle, lest she should break. This time, the doll was pulling him in, slowly at first with only their little fingers, then all at once. Eliza pressed her palm against his until they slid together like puzzle pieces.

Alexander inhaled sharply, then, and stood as still as the fence surrounding them. Eliza rubbed her thumb over his knuckles that blushed with the cold.

"It"s quiet uptown."

Her soft-as-silk voice came out as though she hasn't spoken in years. Neither looked at the other; Only the flowers. Alexander exhaled. When he inhaled next, there was no smell.

"Yes, it is."

Alexander gently squeezed the hand enveloped in his. Eliza squeezed back.


End file.
